Whatever crossroads lead you home
by altairattorney
Summary: We will remain, washed into tomorrow. – Disparition, Doggerland


**Whatever crossroads lead you home**

I. _what of the sea?_

Do they ever think of the sea?

The question surprises Jowd on the verge of the pier. It does not belong in a natural order; it is a smudge, a nasty intruder in his investigation plans, and supposedly the last of his concerns.

Now, though – with his whole world showing a different face, every hint of idea could be meaningful. Anything could help him make sense of it all. So, despite the voices calling his name, he does not move from his spot.

He knows the question is not like him. Then again, nothing that happens since that day is like him anymore, and not even Jowd can tell for sure who he might have become. He stays still for a longer time than he should, counting the embroiders of rust grown on the cargo ships.

Do they ever wonder?

Jowd is suddenly attracted by the see-saw of the water, by that fickle line where the keels are touched by the waves. His gaze is captured by the stripe of steel which dances in and out, between sun and darkness. Each time it breaks free from the molten dirt that makes up this sea, the metal chokes out its shine. It looks like it is forever drowning.

And the point is simple, he tells himself, as his footsteps tear him away from his reverie. The point is they never see much. Their eyes stop sinking way above his own. Their sea is the waves and the wind that blows on the surface, the turquoise of the shore, or the polluted blue which tinges the commercial routes. Jowd's sea opens on the mouth of the ocean, and it is black, silent and monstrous, barely ever touched by the smell of burnt circuits.

Where they see wealth and good fortune, he once had a grave. Deeper, way deeper than they know.

It is not different at all with his life; the concept is identical. What they perceive and tell rolls from their tongues with the same calm of the superficial waves. They see a man at work, impeccable between duty and family. A brilliant mind, minor rookie incidents.

Jowd braces himself, for the thousandth time. There is no point in talking all the same. Even if they knew of the abyss below, they would turn away. Who would dare look? Who would believe him?

He washes away their worries, ever laughing, and sinks back into work. Still, once more, he does not forget. He cannot leave it all behind – his own voyage, so linear and so long, goes on.

It is just them, always them. Lone sailors, two men and two animals, grieving over things that never happened.

The pointlessness of it all makes him desperate.

* * *

II. _doggerland_

He is one out of two whose dreams fall there, where even the light does not dare sink. His nights are not the only ones, but almost, and it barely comforts him to know. It does not stop the mattress from changing into the seabed, resting place of all the remains and the broken things in the world.

Yomiel drifts down, abandoned to the fluorescent eyes of the ocean, and his soul grows fins to push him deeper. There is no way back, no matter how far – he must keep going. He dreams of the dark, of the dying white flares; he feels steel plates cut his skin, until the iron around him is all eaten by rust. Between that and himself, he cannot tell which one is the wreck.

Regardless of how he gets there, he always reaches that point of the dream in which he starts touching. His ethereal fingers have known where to slide for years – he remembers too well the way the bolts are melded in, how the dunes of the rivets sing. It is the path of his lost wishes, the ones that burnt to ashes and sand, in a different time.

But that lost ocean has to wash away, with a sun that announces the dawn in blood. Those depths are not his world anymore. Even so, each time he finds himself awake in fresh sheets, he cannot help wondering if some part of him was accidentally left behind.

It wouldn't even be wrong, Yomiel reflects. He would deserve it.

* * *

III. _child's play_

The first memory Cabanela has of him is written in sounds. A thunderous voice and a litany of feet, step after step, resounding on the pavement like the pulse of drums.

It is the only path Jowd knows how to tread. He always had a primordial way with feelings; he sends messages of half-words and smoke, coming from a distance, played by clumsy hands. He is less than graceful when it comes to that – since the day they met, he showed the roughness and the clarity of the morning.

Which is why, to Cabanela, none of it has ever been unreadable. Not until now.

The problem digs deeper than he can reach. Beyond that, he knows nothing. Testing the ground for a mere second was enough to rule out every other option; there haven't been changes in the balance between them. Jowd's soul is still transparent water to his eyes.

The problem is what he sees. The problem is made of Jowd's worries, all born out of the blue, from some invisible shard of disgrace. Where it came from, damn, only the gods could tell. If only the gods had mouths.

Maybe, on second thought, even the gods wouldn't understand him enough.

Cabanela tries anyway. It has always been that simple. He only ever needed his grace, his swift moves, to have Jowd's secrets wrapped around his finger. With a giant heartbeat like that, to hear is child's play.

How is it that he missed on the sounds which matter most?

He can't recall anything gone _this_ wrong. Still, if this wrong is as wrong as Cabanela believes, there is no way he is ever going to hear it from his lips.

So far. So close, with just a few words in between.

 _Can't you see, baby, it wouldn't be neeearly as hard?_

* * *

IV. _vorago_

The fault might be in what he remembers.

In every single one of Yomiel's memories, she has light feet and a quick pace that will not wait for him. It is afternoon and she is embraced by the wind, whenever the sun crowns the park they love so well. One moment before he can grasp her image, her outline starts blurring.

If not for that, he has no idea how else to explain – how two versions of her could melt in one another with such ease, on the tightrope of a sidewalk, with reality and nothingness parted by such a thin line.

Yomiel tries hard, but he still fails somehow. He is always afraid to see her break like glass. To him, her life constantly throws a shadow of doubt on the ground.

He studies the contrast, from behind his shades. Their darkness makes it less evident. Maybe those things confuse him after all.

But she has not been an illusion for too many years to ignore. Her happiness is solid and round, so different than the airy balance he remembers. She looks too free, too satisfied, too changed.

After all, Sissel has no idea she is constantly walking on the edge of a cliff he alone can see. The gorge is deep, crumbling, and tastes of iron and earth.

Yet, when she turns around to call his name, Yomiel thinks he should maybe start focusing on her face.

* * *

 _V. train tracks_

Alma is awoken by the whistling of a train.

The railway is not so close to their home – far enough for the sounds to diffuse in a mist, a distant memory of travel – but the murmur rings right next to her ear, dragging her back to consciousness from the dead of night.

She lies still for a long time, unnaturally sensitive, as the song of the train seems to spring from herself. Despite their distance, she can hear the wagons flee past her head. The room around her becomes gentle whirring, wind and chokes, and she tastes the metal of wheels that roll who knows where to.

When the train fades away, her mind is alight, mirroring the few windows which share her waking moments. She sees the truth, in a luminous instant. No matter how far we go, we are all prisoners in our own way.

This is not the first time Alma has heard him moan in his sleep. It is a sign she accepts with patience, one in a row of long similar nights and slightly less evident days. Way beyond her comprehension, Jowd is shaken by something she cannot reach.

He never told her the cause of that pain. He also knows she senses it there, and tries to make her forget.

The fading whistle does not save her from her thoughts. She follows the train for miles, out of town, to a journey of oil and dirt. It leads her farther than she had expected – at the heart of a great darkness, but also the unknown.

Before she falls asleep again, the silver snake of the railway blinks once more.

She sleeps on to dream of train tracks, then destroy their illusions. She tears them apart, to pieces, to shining dust in the night. She knows they lie.

The truth is, life never travels the way we believed it would.

* * *

 _VI. ember of snow_

Jowd notices after a few weeks, months ago. Sissel notices he noticed. Once they are both aware, it becomes a more significant game than the others.

The family is used to ignoring the unnatural spots he chooses. They don't even blink when he begins leaning on the radiators each time Jowd comes home. He ends his workday like that, using the door as a shield against the winter, to find his cold cat warmer than he remembers.

It grows into a habit. Not so far from a sort of personal symbolism.

It may be the fact that Sissel is always five steps ahead, or that the mastermind's planning of one night was enough training for an (immortal?) cat's lifetime. Either way, it takes Jowd a while to catch up. Which conveniently leaves him all the time to enjoy the process, and suspect the whole affair might belong in a greater plan of feline devising.

For the warmth around him increases daily, and so does his perception of it. The bundle on his belly, sweet imitation of a living pet's perks, is accompanied by a coffee cup, then more and more of daughter, wife, lifetime friend as the winter goes by.

They end the year by adding a fireplace to their home. On the following Sunday afternoons, Jowd finds himself keeping a furry burning log on his chest.

He runs his fingers on Sissel's head, sensing drops of ice just below the surface. He thinks of what it all means to his most unusual cat, dead and alive – a snowflake surrounded by flame, more fitting on his family sofa than in a small graveyard of past years.

It is really simple to him. It would be in any case, detective or not. Sissel always has two ways.

Maybe one of them is the way out.

* * *

 _VII. turning point_

They cross paths in the park, with no planning whatsoever, and their lives change for good.

It is not an epiphany, nor does the world click into place all at once. They just happen to step on the same beaten ground, young couple, happy family plus extensions. Their meeting is a flurry of separate colours and separate talks, barely brushing past, with no recognition.

The two of them can't help noticing, though. So do their pets.

The jolt of black nearly passes unnoticed among all those legs. It is only seen, felt, by those who should. It curls around red fabric and flows by, leaving in him all the warmth his life can no longer give.

Brown fur like yarn jumps to meet him again, as a quiet sign of familiarity. The man in red follows him, too, and smiles. It is then that he can meet the detective's eyes, first time of so many other times, and finally feel at ease.

The day stretches on, long or short, for all the visitors. Down below, a foreign rock with no human meaning watches their time go by. It moves and stays still, now like for the years to come, as two reforged families walk their separate ways.

It is not long before they take a turn, disappearing from each other's sight. Two small creatures, with no words and no explanations, run ahead. Not much has changed – in that park, nothing has changed in a long time. Most people keep playing, jumping, drawing long circles in the grass.

It is not that evident. In the end, their journey to peace was like a drop of water – an endless wait to see it grow, molecule after molecule, and a split second to watch it in free fall. However, as slight as the difference is, it changes everything.

The evening falls to chase everyone away. Impatient children, tired parents, young lives – the usual people swarm out of the doors, impatiently rushing to a single destination. One by one, they follow the way home.

Twenty years later, the two of them finally do the same.

* * *

 _A gift for laughingmango, with all my love, my hope, my faith and the best of luck. Thank you, Disparition, for helping me snap out of writer's block._


End file.
